


Figure It Out

by rissalf, SilentSinger



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Drug-Related Shenanigans, Character Study, Dreams, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pegging, Poop is funny, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Frustration, Stalking (and we're sure as fuck not sugar-coating it), Violence, a whole lotta blasphemy, artemis is extra as fuck, charles in charge, dennis is a bastard man, fucking & feels, korean snail racing, teeny bit of implied macdennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: Charlie and Dee take ecstasy and huff glue. Things (d)evolve from there.





	1. 3:30 PM on a Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Fic is set sometime between S10E06: The Gang Misses the Boat and S12E06: Hero or Hate Crime?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie tries something new.

For Charlie Kelly, all things seem like a good idea at the time, because life is too short and too fucking confusing to worry about the whys and the wherefores. Act first, think later. Regret later. Or perhaps...

Frank had flung himself through the door of Paddy’s earlier that day with his usual grace – that of a man smeared in bacon grease being pursued by a pack of starving wolves – and slammed a substantial bag of white pills onto the bar, murmuring something about unloading the goods ASA-fucking-P. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

“What we got here, Frank? Is that ecstasy?” says Dennis, tearing himself away from his hand mirror for a closer look at the baggie of Rolex logo-engraved pills.

“Sure is,” Frank grunts. “I went clubbing with Pondy last night. He brought party favours. Had these little beauties jammed tight up his ass, but the guy doesn’t eat enough fibre, you know? Took us ’til four in the morning to get him to evacuate.” At this revelation, Dennis drops the bag in disgust. Frank smirks and begins to divvy the contents into separate piles. “By which time the club was closed,” he continues. “So I’m hawkin’ ’em.”

“Ah, man,” says Mac, as the rest of the Gang gather around to join the conversation. “I took some of this shit with Carmen a couple years ago; we danced around her apartment for two hours and then engaged in some of the best sex I’ve ever had.” 

“Oh yeah,” Frank replies. “You bang a broad on this, your junk feels like a million bucks. If you can keep it up that is. That’s how you separate the men from the boys, fuckos. I sampled the stock about an hour ago; I got a boner right now.”

“A good, old-fashioned drug-peddling scheme, huh?” Dennis interjects, tactfully ignoring Frank’s erectile status and clapping his hands together with malevolent glee. “I’m game for that. So, let’s talk tactics. Strategies. I think Mac should take a trip to the Rainbow and cover the gay angle, obviously-”

“Why ‘obviously’?!”

“-and you two,” Dennis waves his hand dismissively, “can go fuck things up however you usually do.”

The bar swells with shouts and insults and outlandish accusations – and anyone who happened to wander into Paddy’s at this hour would either be mortified or completely nonplussed by the routine display of childish bickering. 

“And where does that leave you?” Frank asks, cutting through the din. 

Dennis’ lips curl upwards into a disconcerting smirk – he looks eerily like the Grinch contemplating a room full of stolen Christmas toys – and snatches his share of the goods from the bar. “Oh, don’t you worry about me, Frank. I’ve got a line on the most solid market imaginable: impressionable college freshmen. I’ll see you dipshits later.”

They all head their separate ways, one after another, until Dee and Charlie are left with a pile of E and two half-finished beers between them.

“God, can you believe Dennis? ‘Fuck things up’ – we’re gonna show him, Charlie. We’re gonna push this shit real good and then shove his smug face in it.”

Charlie can hear the scowl without even looking at her – partly because Dee is always scowling about one thing or another, and partly because her voice has risen an octave and taken on the petulant squawk of a seagull choking on a piece of garbage. 

Or at least that’s what the guys would say.  _ Stupid bird, _ they’d laugh – and Charlie would too, because honestly that shit’s funny as hell. But while he might have pissed himself a time or two laughing over it, he never really got why it bothered Dee so much – or rather, he never gave it more than a fleeting thought before something invariably more interesting diverted his attention. The fact that it makes her mad is enough. 

“Charlie, are you even listening to me?” 

“Yeah, absolutely... No, not a bit.” 

Dee makes a frustrated sound – like a constipated steer crossed with a bear – but quickly moves on. “I said, maybe we oughta try this shit before we get out there. Get familiar with our product, you know?”

Charlie nods in agreement – it’s good, solid logic – and pops one of the pills into his mouth, crunching it between his teeth as Dee’s face scrunches in disgust. Not minty at all like he imagined it would be. “Huh,” he shrugs. “Not bad, I guess.”

“Not bad? Charlie, that shit tastes like fucking earwax! You don’t chew ecstasy.” She tosses back a tablet and slams the rest of her beer. “You swallow it. Like a pill.”

“Who swallows pills?” 

“Everybody, Charlie! Everybody swallows pills-”

“Yeah, but you gotta taste it for it to work. Otherwise it’s just gonna be in your stomach until you poop it out and it don’t do nothing. That’s just common sense.”

Dee sighs. “Goddammit, Charlie, I don’t have time to explain medicine to you. We need a game plan, okay? We’re not gonna let Dennis dismiss us like a couple of fuckups anymore.”

“Okay, okay.” He drums his fingers on the bar and waits. “You got anything?”

“No. You?”

He thinks – really thinks, instead of just spacing out pondering cats, or the Waitress’ hair, or what the Waitress might look like with cat ears – and leaps from the barstool.

“I’ve got it,” he shouts, raising a finger with all the airs of a scientist who’s just stumbled across the solution to a particularly taxing problem. “Let’s go into the back office, huff a little glue and come up with an idea.”

“How is that going to help, Charlie?” Dee says, the timbre of her voice edging dangerously close to seagull territory once more.

“Glue helps me think.”

Never one to say no to a proposal that involves getting intoxicated to the nth degree, Dee simply shrugs her shoulders. “Fine.”

****

“You know,” Charlie begins, “I don’t think this is working. Is it working, Dee? I don’t feel any different. Do you feel different? What time is it? It’s kinda hot in here. Is it hot in here? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could show the Gang – we could show them all, Dee. How about we show them – fuck, I’d really like to show them – that we are not to be fucked with, Dee. Dee, are you listening to me? Dee? Sweet Dee? Dee!”

Dee is deeply engrossed in her finest inflatable-tube-man dance, her arms flailing wildly within the confines of the tiny office. Charlie doesn’t even remember putting any music on in the first place. Is this Steve Winwood? Is this Dennis’ music? It’s great, whatever it is. Dee is pretty.

“Dee!”

“Yeah, Charlie. I’m listening,” Dee replies, her shoulders shimmying to the beat, her eyes closed and a dreamy smile plastered upon her face. “You know what, though? I’m thinking. I say we fuck those guys. Not  _ fuck _ them, fuck them; that would be gross – Dennis is my brother, and Frank is, well, he’s  _ somebody’s _ dad, anyway, I say we do a little something for  _ us, _ for once. What do you say, Charlie? What do you want to do?”

Charlie suppresses a giggle and grins.

****

Charlie doesn’t remember ever having that much fun in the sewer before. Even the time he and Frank discovered what could only be described as a rampant cat orgy can’t measure up to the sheer delight of running around down there with Dee. She looks good covered in shit and piss and whatever-the-fuck else. Probably bum spooge. Definitely bum spooge. It’s not that he was aiming to look at her, because it’s Dee and that shit’s like looking at your sister… who you happened to bang once. But her long, naked, gangly frame is actually pretty nice. Slender. Surprisingly un-birdlike. But he won’t tell her any of this. Why ruin a good thing? 

And it  _ was _ good. Really fucking good. Most people don’t appreciate the freedom the sewer offers, but he has to hand it to Dee – she really threw herself into it. Maybe it was the glue. What was that other thing they took tonight? Anyway, they really oughta huff together more often. Charlie kept expecting her to balk when those syringes floated past or when that ungodly mammoth-sized turd grazed her leg, but instead she laughed it off with all the calm of a zen master and kept chattering about “her turn”. 

She may have mentioned what she wanted to do, but Charlie honestly can’t recall anything more than that gleam in her eye when she said it. And really she can’t expect him to listen to her all the time, because who can even do that? Listening is hard. And the sewer is too distracting to pay attention to every little thing that comes out of a person’s mouth. Frank knows this – he just  _ knows _ like, everything. And Dee, well, Dee talks so damn much. Sometimes it’s easier to just pretend.  

Even more refreshing than the wall of sewer water, though, is Dee’s shower. For starters, the water is actually warm, and Dee’s shampoo smells amazing. Probably tastes amazing too, he thinks, as he uncaps the bottle and takes a swig. It’s pretty good, but not at all like coconut.

All in all, this is a life he could get used to, he supposes, as he dries himself off and wraps a towel around his waist. Warm, running water along with tasty, not-coconut shampoo, and funtimes in the sewer with Deandra Reynolds. It really doesn’t get much better than this.

Regarding his reflection in the mirror, it occurs to him that he’s not spared a single thought for the Waitress in hours. Huh. 

****

Dee is nowhere to be found. Charlie checks all the best hiding spots: behind the curtains, under the sofa, the refrigerator, before opening her bedroom door to be greeted with a sight he’s entirely unprepared for.

Dee is sat upright on top of her covers, her towel-dried hair cascading over the shoulders of her fluffy, blue bathrobe, and she’s nonchalantly caressing what can only be described as a large, purple boner.

“Uh, Dee?” Charlie begins, utterly perplexed at the spectacle he’s viewing with his own two eyes. Fuck, maybe it’s that shit they took. “Since when do you have a dick?”

“It’s a strap-on, you idiot. Now, drop the towel and bend over, cocksucker.” She slides off the bed and grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand, the big purple dick bobbing menacingly between the opening in the robe. She looks good. Great, even. Except for the cock. 

Charlie takes a step backwards and raises his hands. “Whoa! Hey, whoa, when uh, when did we agree to this?”

“Goddammit, Charlie, I’ve only been talking about this all fucking night. You agreed to it in the sewer, remember?”

Charlie vaguely recalls agreeing to  _ something, _ right around the time that pile of used condoms floated past – bearing an uncanny resemblance to a balloon dog. Did he agree to this?

“And I said-”

“You said ‘yes’, Charlie,” Dee snaps, and he expects her to go all shrill and incredulous, but instead she flops onto the bed, the strap-on somewhat negating the dramatic intent.

“Why?” 

“Why do you agree to half the things you do, Charlie? I don’t-”

“No, I mean why is this what you wanted to do with me?” 

“Because, Charlie,” Dee says with a heavy sigh, the expression on her face practically melancholic, “because I’m always getting shit on. Sure, I can fuck a guy; I can ride that sucker ’til he’s screaming my name and begging for me to hurt him just a little more. But in the end, I never truly win, Charlie. I get mine, sure – okay, sometimes I get mine by myself after he’s gone – but for once... for once I’d really just like to  _ fuck _ a guy. I’d really like to fuck  _ you, _ Charlie.”

Sweet Dee wants to fuck him. In the ass. Should he have seen this coming? That thing’s not gonna  _ come, _ is it? Shit, why did he agree to this? The point is, he did. He watches Dee, frowning at the ceiling as she flicks her fake junk like some sad, purple-dicked hobo, and he can’t shit on her now, not after that speech. If the guys were here, sure, but the rules are different when it’s just the two of them. They have their own kind of code. And he has to admit: he really wants to make Dee happy – naked-filthy-sewer-funtimes happy. Everybody should experience that once. If that involves getting fucked in the ass – so be it. 

“So, are you gonna lube that thing up, or…”

Dee sits up again, her face lighting with equal parts surprise and excitement and something else altogether, well, soft. “You’re really not gonna fight me on this? Or try and back out like you guys always fucking do whenever it’s my turn for something?”

“Dee, we agreed.” Charlie can’t help but smile at her; it feels good making her happy. He drops the towel before the moment gets too awkward, but stops just before climbing onto the bed. “But dude, the guys never find out about this.”

“Oh, abso-fucking-lutely.” She grins wickedly and uncaps the lube before he can back out; the sloppy squirt makes him wince and turn away.

He doesn’t watch her slather it up; in fact, the less he sees at this point, the better. Because if he looks at it, he’s going to worry about just how that thing’s going to fit, and he’ll never be able to get his own dick up if he thinks too hard about that. So he can’t help but flinch when her fingers plunge right between his cheeks and begin to explore the pucker of his ass.

“Whoa, fuck, Dee! What the hell are you doing back there?”

“Charlie, unless you want me to literally tear your ass apart, we’ve gotta loosen you up.” She leans over him and gives his hair a playful yank. “If I were you, I’d relax and start thinking of something hot.”

Something hot. Something hot. He wishes he had a better recollection of the last time they banged, but they were both six beers deep and fuelled by the brilliance of their own def poetry. Perhaps Dee in the sewer? Disgusting and wild and high as fuck. He doesn’t speculate as to why that’s one of the first images to come to mind, or what that might mean. Probably because it just happened is all. And anyway, he thinks, as his cock begins to stiffen, it’s working just fine. Plus, all things considered, Dee’s fingers working his asshole don’t feel anywhere near as bad as he supposes they ought to. He can see why Mac is into this. Maybe-

“Oh,” he gasps, her fingers hitting something inside that takes the whole ordeal from “not so bad” to really fucking good.

Dee responds with a carefree giggle, her long fingers coaxing and caressing, and Charlie finds himself not only relaxing, but actually  _ enjoying. _ When Dee leans forward to whisper in his ear: “I hope you’re fucking ready”, it’s all he can do to whine in agreement. 

He can hear her adjusting position, and when the warm, slick impression of the fake dick teases his opening, he finds himself practically eager with anticipation. She eases into him slowly, and it’s a sensation unlike any he’s ever experienced before.

After an all-too-long pause, Dee begins to move, her rhythm unhurried, her hands gripping at his hips. This really shouldn’t feel so damn good, but it’s Dee, it’s  _ Dee, _ and making her happy is really fucking doing it for him – as if it’s the only thing in the world that matters right now. She plays her part to perfection, her fingers gripping hard enough to bruise, a tirade of fouler-than-usual language spilling effortlessly from her mouth, and her pace increasing until every profanity-laden thrust causes Charlie to moan just that little bit louder, until-

_ “Fuck!” _

Dee gives him a sharp smack on the ass and bucks her hips against him. “You like that, bitch?” 

_ Fuck. _ He does, he really does. “Shit- Yes!”

It’s enough to really get Dee going, and she drives into him even harder, committed to fucking his ass with the same level of focus she’d given her tube-man dance earlier that evening. For his part, Charlie can do little but hang on, his own muddled obscenities adding to the increasingly lewd cacophony of moans and shouts and skin slapping against skin.

He wonders how long she’s planning to pound away, mostly because he’s aching to get himself off at this point, but he doesn’t want to disappoint by hurrying her through this. She keeps ramming that spot, though, and –  _ fuck. _

“Dee,” he groans, “Dee, I gotta-”

Fuck it. As much as she’d probably enjoy him asking for permission to touch himself, the words won’t come, and he’s so hard now it’s unbearable. He scrambles for his dick like he’s thirteen again and just discovered dirty magazines, and gets in a dozen or so messy, haphazard strokes before he’s  _ there, _ Dee’s bedspread clutched in one hand as he shoots hard into his other. 

“Jesus  _ Christ, _ Dee.” 

He’s shaky and breathing hard when Dee pulls out, unsure whether it’s the glue or the earwax pill or the fact that Sweet Dee just rode his ass until he came that’s making him feel so damn euphoric. 

He stops short of wiping his sticky hand on the bed – that’s just the kind of thing that would make Dee go all scowling seagull again – and instead reaches for the discarded towel.

“I’ll get myself off,” says Dee, unfastening the dildo and setting it aside with a look of calm satisfaction. She settles onto the bed, legs apart, and Charlie can’t tell if she’s waiting for him to get the fuck out, or maybe...

“Can I watch?” Charlie asks hopefully. 

“Sure.”

Charlie scrambles into a comfortable viewing position, head propped up on his elbows as Dee closes her eyes and begins to work herself. He marvels at her expression, her flushed cheeks and the way she gently bites her bottom lip as her unoccupied hand reaches inside her robe to stroke her nipple. It’s a truly magnificent sight to behold, and Charlie hopes that tomorrow, he can still remember every little detail of what has undoubtedly been one of the most remarkable nights of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. It's what we do.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	2. 5:30 AM on a Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dee has feelings. Big feelings.

“Fucking _Christ,_ Charlie.”

Dee isn’t sure exactly why she’s laid atop Paddy’s bar, stark naked, legs spread wide with Charlie’s head between them, but she sure as fuck isn’t going to question it now. The oak is cool against her back, and she writhes against the sleek surface as Charlie’s mouth explores her pussy, licking and fondling and gently sucking at her swollen clit. The boy has some serious skill, she thinks, her long fingers entangled in his soft, dishevelled hair. His beard feels fantastic down there too; it’s not rough at all like she’d imagined it would be, but downy-smooth – its feather-like caress increasing the overwhelming pleasure exponentially.

Charlie is moaning around his mouthful: broken little mewls that are breaking Dee down from the inside out; she couldn’t fight it if she tried. He’s hunched upon the bartop between her thighs, and he shifts position slightly to ease one finger into her wet cunt, crooking it inside to graze her just _there,_ and another to gently tease her asshole – his pliant tongue never once ceasing in its enthusiastic assault.

It’s a relentless endeavour, and each thrust from his deft fingers and each hungry slurp elevates Dee to a whole new level of pleasure; she’s never felt this good in her entire damn life. She belongs to this, and she belongs to _him._ Her body aches with the need for release; the need for Charlie, and that tongue, that glorious _fucking_ tongue-

_“Fuck,_ Charlie, _yes.”_

She grips the side of the bar with one hand, the other still intertwined in Charlie’s hair, keeping him in place, keeping him right where she fucking needs him. Her whole body begins to tense as she loses herself completely – she’s so goddamn close now; she just needs a little more- _Christ, where the motherfuck did he learn to do this? Yes, God, just like that. Fuck, Charlie! Oh, Jesus, oh... oh, fuuuuuck-_

“Just as I suspected,” scoffs Dennis, from somewhere to Dee’s left, and Dee comes soaring back down to earth with all the grace of an elephant jumping from a bridge. She was so damn close, too. She can tell by his holier-than-thou tone that he’s smirking; what is the smug prick even doing here?

“Really, Dee?” Mac chimes in, the disdain in his voice that of a man who’s just stepped in a fat, stinking pile of dog shit. Apparently Mac is here, too. Of course he is. “After Rex, dude, I’d have thought you could do much better.”

“Leave the poor bastards be, for fuck’s sake,” says Frank, with what sounds like a mouthful of chips. “It’s completely up to Dee if she wants to go slumming. Christ knows her old man indulges often enough. Bang that dirty whore, Deandra!”

Charlie doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest by their audience. He continues fucking her with his agile tongue, his strong, callused hands now gripping tightly to her thighs. Aghast, Dee shields her breasts with her arms in a paltry attempt at modesty, and, against her better judgement, chances a glance at the Gang. Dennis is bearing a sardonic smirk, as suspected – his eyes bright and gleaming with malice, and Mac looks downright nauseous. Frank is chowing down on a bag of Cheetos.

Dee opens her mouth to say something, to tell them all to fuck off – to mind their own goddamn business – but the words won’t form, and she swallows stale mouthfuls of air like a fish out of water.

“What’s the matter, Dee?” asks Charlie, raising his head at last, and Dee practically hisses at the loss of sensation – then finds herself biting back a moan at Charlie’s unkempt appearance. He’s a hot mess of tangled hair, reddened lips and flushed cheeks; his pupils are blown out completely and his beard is glistening with moisture. “Don’t you love me?”

****

“Goddammit.”

Dee starts awake half breathless and damp with sweat, and feeling – for probably the first time in her entire life – like she needs fucking Jesus. Actually, she thinks, if he could eat pussy like dream-Charlie, she’d be in church every goddamn Sunday.

It was a dream. Just a stupid dream. Clearly it had only occurred because of what she and Charlie did a couple of days ago. It could have been anyone between her legs on that bar. Well, not Mac because, well, _ew._ And certainly not Dennis. (Not again anyhow; her therapist practically had to talk her off a ledge after that little hell-dream a few months back.) And Frank would never have the dexterity to- _Why the fuck am I thinking about this?_

It’s just a fucking dream.

_“What’s the matter, Dee?”_

That she can’t stop thinking about.

She snatches the pillow from behind her head and gives it a quick fluff, then crams it back in place. She shifts restlessly beneath the covers, then kicks them off, only to pull them back up a few minutes later in a huff.

_“Don’t you love me?”_

Dee groans. She doesn’t know why she’s losing sleep over Charlie fucking Kelly. Guaran-damn-tee you he’s not dreaming of me right now, she thinks, but that burst of anger only winds her up more. She’d like nothing more right now than to scream at the little dirtgrub, and maybe push him down until he’s on his knees and staring up at her, his grimy hands daring to grip hungrily at her hips as he waits for her command.

She can practically feel the soft graze of Charlie’s beard against her skin, the tantalising way it nuzzles against her as his tongue sets out to explore every millimetre of her slick cunt with unyielding enthusiasm. Maybe he’d even pause to look up at her with that dopey grin of his. “You taste so good, Dee,” he’d say, before burying his face in her pussy once more.

Oh, fuck it; she needs this.

She slips her hand beneath the covers and begins to tease, her fingers slipping easily over her already swollen clit, and gropes for the vibrator on her nightstand with the other. Charlie might not be here, but Steven never fails to get the job done.

As the toy hums to life, Dee closes her eyes and climbs back onto the bar, spreading her legs wide so that Charlie can get to work. He dives in with startling intensity, and Dee moans at the heady sensation building between her legs.

God, it feels fantastic, even now with only a fading dream and her imagination to see her through. It’s easy enough to pretend that the steady vibrations are Charlie humming away with a mouthful of cunt, and that her own fingers sliding roughly in and out of her pussy are his. She’s already flushed, her breath coming quick and peppered with satisfied moans and broken, raspy sighs; hell, Dee had been halfway to coming before she’d even shimmied out of her pyjama pants.

She grinds against the vibrator but instead imagines pressing Charlie’s face harder against her clit, urging him on – wordlessly begging him to fuck her until she’s incoherent and screaming only for him. Dream-Charlie is ever obedient, eating her out as if she’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever tasted in his entire fucking life, and in no time at all Dee hits _that fucking spot,_ the one that makes her claw at the sheets and writhe with debauched ecstasy.

_Oh, fuck- Jesus fucking Christ, that’s it. Don’t fucking stop, don’t stop, don’t-_

“Yes, fuck! _Charlie!”_

She shouts without realising, arching into the sublime release with her entire body, until finally the tremors subside and she’s left still and spent, staring at the ceiling and absolutely not coming up with a scheme to bang Charlie again as soon as fucking possible.

****

The problem with fucking one of your closest friends in the ass, during a night of drug-fuelled absurdity, is that it’s pretty hard to gauge where to take things from there. Yesterday had passed in somewhat of a subdued stupor – Dee and Charlie were both riding out one motherfucker of a comedown during which sleep wouldn’t come, everything was too much effort, lights were too bright and food tasted of cardboard. They’d barely spoken to anyone – let alone each other – and instead had taken to communicating by way of grunts and sluggish hand gestures. Dee couldn’t even be sure what had happened to the rest of the pills, and decided that they’d probably ended up in the sewer someplace. Guess they fucked things up after all. She hates it when Dennis is right. And now here she is, at six in the morning, showering off post-masturbatory sweat – brought to her courtesy of Charlie Kelly. She supposes that they really ought to talk.

****

At around ten o’clock, after a great deal of indecision on exactly how to broach the subject with Charlie, Dee enters Paddy’s with her jaw set and her resolve strengthened. They _will_ discuss this. They’ll discuss the shit out of this. Charlie is nowhere to be found, however, and the rest of the Gang are deeply engrossed in a discussion about their next possible scheme: Toddler combat. It’s like pageantry, but with karate.

Dee feigns interest for some minutes – even suggesting tiny knuckle dusters – before making her excuses to go look for Charlie.

She finds him in the basement, crouched in the corner with a can of spray paint in one hand, and a dirty old sock in the other.

He takes a long hit as he sees her – the protracted hiss-snort echoing from the stone walls – and then rises to his feet. Dee has to bite back a whimper. He’s filthy from head to toe, with dirt and grime and what appears to be blood caked on his jeans. His nose is wreathed in lustrous silver paint, and the sleeves of his maroon shirt are rolled up to reveal surprisingly taut biceps covered in a sheen of perspiration and a smattering of freckles. But worst of all is his hair – untamed and completely wild, and all too reminiscent of the way he looked between her thighs. Motherfuck.

“So, hey Charlie. Um, about Monday night…” Dee swallows hard. She’s worked through this conversation a thousand times in her head since this morning, yet seeing Charlie in such a state has really thrown her for a loop. _He looks like this all the damn time, Deandra. Move past it!_

“When?”

Dee sighs. “Monday. With the ecstasy and the sewer? And the other thing, back at my place?” _That’s it, rip that Band-Aid right off._

“Oh, right, yeah.” Charlie thinks for a beat before a satisfied grin spreads across his face. “You got any more of that coconut shampoo?”

“Shampoo? You wanna know about fucking shampoo right now?”

“Well, yeah. It was pretty good shit. Why, what else should I be thinking about?” He looks so damn sincere that Dee can’t be sure whether he’s actually legitimately forgotten what happened, or whether he’s just one hell of an actor.

“Um, I don’t know, Charlie,” Dee looks around and lowers her voice to a hiss, as if anything louder might attract the attention of one of those dickholes upstairs, “maybe the fact that I fucked your ass with a giant purple dildo? That ring any bells?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, _that._ And I think you and I should talk about it, don’t you? I mean – _whoa,_ right?” She laughs a little too loud – necessary to keep from dry-heaving – and hopes she doesn’t sound like a complete jackass.

Charlie shrugs. “I uh, really don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

The fucker runs his fingers through his hair, and Dee isn’t entirely certain whether that makes her want to smack him or pull him into the Y2K bunker and dirty him up a little bit more. Possibly both.

“No?” She reels herself back from the brink of shrill and straightens herself up to her full height, knowing very well she’s got the trump card. “Not a damn thing huh? ‘Cause it seemed like you enjoyed yourself quite a bit there. Don’t think I didn’t see the way you watched me getting myself off; your tongue was practically begging for a taste of Sweet Dee.”

His expression is unreadable – not entirely a rare occurrence for one Charlie Kelly, especially when he’s high off his ass – but it isn’t long before the look is replaced by one of dumbfounded exasperation.

“Ugh, Dee! God, just let it go. Why do we always have to talk about things?” He fills the sock once more and breathes deep, then continues: “Stuff happens. Lotsofstuff. Why we gotta discuss the stuff, Dee? Cats don’t talk. Why can’t we be cats?”

Dee hates how good he looks, cunted out of his mind and raving about cats, but she hates herself more for thinking it. Part of her wishes she’d brought the strap-on – she could shove that damn sock in his mouth and bend him over for round two. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

“Aw, goddammit, Charlie, not the damn cats right now. This is important.”

“I refuse to live in a world without cats, Dee!” He throws his hands in the air, as if he cannot fathom such an atrocity, and Dee begins to see that this is a lost cause.

“But Charlie, I-”

“Shhh!”

“Did you-”

“Shhh!”

“-just shush me?” That does it for Dee. There are some things you just don’t do in civilised conversation, and shushing is goddamn one of them. “You know what, Dirtgrub? What-fucking-ever. I’m outta here.”

_So, you wanna play it like that, boner? Fine._ Dee turns on her heel and stomps up the stairs and past the rest of the Gang – who, now engrossed in an argument about whether the poor kids would make better fighters, ignore her bluster entirely – a scheme already coming together in her mind.

If Charlie doesn’t want her, then that’s just fine. She can have any man at her feet anyhow, and that’s exactly what she’s going to do. She’ll show him just how much she doesn’t need his stupid hairy face or his long, nimble tongue. She’ll find some rando and bang his goddamn brains out if she has to. Then Charlie will see; he’s the one who’s going to regret passing up Deandra Reynolds.

It’s a good plan, a solid plan, but it doesn’t stop Dee spending her journey to the nearest bar considering just how Charlie would smell, up close, after a hard day’s work – his hair matted to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks ruddy from exertion. Probably terrible. Maybe even disgusting. But motherfuck she wants to find out.

Goddammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [And here's a little visual by my insanely talented cohort. ;)](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/private/181230457273/tumblr_pjygjujDJl1udx1jc)


	3. 8:30 PM on a Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie needs some time to clear his head. And other things.

His name is Ian Beaufort and he likes to fuck women in a place that’s notoriously uncomfortable – and it isn’t the back of a Volkswagen. Dee doesn’t mind that, particularly, and in the grand scheme of things he looks fantastic on her arm, his dick is reasonably sized, and it tastes pretty good. But this guy is a complete jerkoff.

He’s the sort of asshole who’d send himself a valentine. The sort of dickweasel who’d tip the waiter to deliver him a drink and state – in a very loud voice – “from the lovely lady who just left in her Mercedes”. A five-star man who’d invent a bevy of bogus “dates”, each one all too eager to attest to his many charms. When he speaks (which he does, at length – because if you have a story, you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll have an even more impressive tale: such is his action-packed life), he enunciates every fifth word or so, as if to lend an air of importance to his anecdotes – each of which is more outlandish than the last. 

With his perfectly coiffed hair, pearly white teeth and bespoke Armani suit, he’s a man who desperately wishes to appear distinguished, intelligent, and well-travelled. 

But Daddy’s trust fund aside, he’s a gentleman of superficial style, zero substance, and even less class. The women in his social circle are wise to his schtick – which is why he’s taken to cruising for tail pretty much anyplace he can get it, and he’s long past the point of being choosy about whom he bangs. He’s everything Charlie hates – the anti-Charlie, if you will – and Dee knows it.

 

Charlie is unaware of any of this; all he knows is that  _ this _ douchebag is a grade-A prick sandwich, and as Dee parades her new immaculately groomed boy-toy around Paddy’s, he finds himself seething with rage – his grubby fingernails digging into the palms of his hands until they draw blood. Even Dennis seems irked by the fella, and they strut about the place sizing one another up like peacocks about to do battle. This guy is clearly no good; his manicured hands are all over Dee, and Charlie finds himself needing to get the hell away from here.

He could always retreat to the basement to get high, but he’d know Ian is still here, still drinking their beer and pawing at Dee like a rabid, horny dog. What he’d really like to do, though, is lure the preening assmunch down and bash him like a rat. And while the idea of shoving his rat stick a good ways up Ian’s ass fills Charlie with a momentary sense of sublime satisfaction, he’s far too angry and too confused to turn ideas into action tonight. After all, why should it matter who Dee wants to bang? She’s never had good taste in men, and he’s never given two shits about it before. It shouldn’t bother him now, but it just  _ does, _ for reasons he can’t really articulate. 

At that moment, Mr. Turd-burger-deluxe swats Dee on the ass and pulls her into his lap, and Charlie can’t contain himself any longer. He rambles off an excuse to Mac on his way out the door – sputtering and yelling and entirely incoherent (even for Charlie’s standards) – but it’s clear from the dopey, open-mouthed expression on Mac’s face that he’s too enamoured with Dennis and Ian’s dick-measuring chess match to have heard a word of it. 

Forget Dee. Charlie knows where he needs to go. His world has tipped off-balance and what he needs is stability, to slip into something as comfortable and familiar as a worn pair of long johns with a hole in the crotch. Normally, he’d go down into the sewer and see about catching a few sewer crabs to share with Frank later, but the idea of it reminds him of Dee and how good she looked all dirty and naked, and maybe if he just-  _ Shit. Fuck. No. _

He mutters to himself as he walks, hands shoved in his pockets but still balled up so tight his fingers start to tingle.  _ Bet he’s going to eat her shampoo. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve her either. The guy deserves to be jelly. A big, ugly stain on the sidewalk that people will walk on and bums will piss all over, and- Goddammit Dee, why do you always go for these dicks? _

He lets himself fume until he settles in outside the Waitress’ window, and finds her alone in her pyjamas and curled up in front of the TV with one of those pretty-boy doctor dramas. Typical Thursday-night routine. He’s got an hour and a half before she moves to the bedroom and double locks the door behind her. The predictability immediately puts him more at ease, and for a while at least, all the roaring thoughts about Dee and the Douchebag Boy Wonder subside to a whisper.

He focuses on her profile: her dainty upturned nose and the delicate contrast of her blonde hair against her porcelain skin. He’d dearly like to run his fingers through that hair, as they enjoy the comfort of his futon, her head resting upon his lap.  _ “Charlie,” _ she’d say,  _ “I wish we could stay like this forever.”  _ She’d then enthuse at length about his many talents – his culinary prowess, his artistic flair, and of course his musical genius – and he’d proceed to sing to her until her eyes glistened with longing, and then she’d remove her shirt and he’d be graced with her exquisite, supple breasts.

_ Fuck it. _ It’s not the first time, and it definitely won’t be the last. With a wry smile and a cursory glance down the street, Charlie stealthily unzips his pants.

He starts slowly, caressing his hardening cock with the same tender reverence he’d given the Waitress’ hair in his fantasy. With his free hand he grips the trash can beside him and pictures her clambering astride him, her features flushed with desire and her heated flesh pressed against his own as she leans in close and whispers: 

_ “I hope you’re fucking ready.” _

_ Wait- What the fuck? No. Go away, Dee, this isn’t about you! _

He focuses his attention towards the Waitress once more – who is now deeply engrossed in the removal of a particularly bothersome toenail – and his strokes become less gentle and more haphazard as he clenches his tongue between his teeth and imagines her sinking onto his dick with a light, breathless moan:

_ “You like that, bitch?” _

_ Shit. Get out of my head, Dee, you’re ruining this!  _

Leaning closer to the glass for a better look inside, he tries desperately to bring his fantasy back to life. The Waitress. The Waitress’ hair. The Waitress’ breasts. The Waitress’ gangly, slender body-  _ No, that’s not right. Goddammit, Dee!  _

He doesn’t stop stroking himself though, not for a second – in fact, he finds he doesn’t want to stop, even though It’s all Dee now: the scent of her, so clean and bright; the lustful moans she can’t hold back as she fucks him like he’s the best lay of her life; the way her soft skin blunts all her sharp edges. And when he shuts his eyes – fully embracing this new, unshakeable reverie – Dee’s long legs are wrapped around him, her hands tangled in his hair – pulling, pulling, urging him to fuck her just a little harder. 

Dee. 

Sweet Dee.

Sweet  _ fucking _ Dee. 

_ Oh fuck, Dee.  _

It’s hard not to shout her name as loud as he can, to match the cries of  _ “Yes, Charlie, fuck! Yes!” _ that he imagines her uttering when she comes. But he remembers where he is, and instead settles for clutching the trash can a little tighter as he shoots hard and hot and fast all over the apartment building’s brick facade.  _ Dee, fuck, Dee! God, fuck, fuuuuuck. _

As he zips himself up and wipes his filthy hands on his shirt, Charlie feels oddly unsatisfied and even more confused than when he’d left Paddy’s. But it isn’t the mess or the fact that his tongue aches and his mouth tastes like he’s been sucking on pennies again, or even the haze of sobriety that’s making him feel wrong. He has feelings for Dee, no question about it now. And it doesn’t feel gross to think of her in such a manner; it feels excruciating and painful and nauseating in a pleasant sort of way. But more than that: it feels  _ right. _

There’s just one oily-haired, beady-eyed problem, and Dee seems to think he shits dollar bills and ejaculates Jim Beam.

Ian  _ fucking _ Beaufort. What a pretentious piece of greasy shit.

But he can wait the asshole out, if he has to. Because if there’s one thing Charlie has learned from following the Waitress around for the better part of his adult life, it’s how to play the long game. Dee will get bored – or get shit on, again – and then… Well, then they’ll figure it out.

In the meantime, what he needs to do now is get back to the apartment and get good and fucking wasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. We're deeply unpleasant. :)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	4. 1:00 AM on a Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie works on a few issues.

Charlie keeps a collection of treasures. In Paddy’s basement, residing in a shoebox at the back of a drawer marked “cleening produkts” (as any such items are specifically designated for the purpose of Charlie Work and are therefore of no interest to the Gang whatsoever), it sits – a hallowed cache of beloved knick-knacks and cherished memories.

During hiatuses from rat bashing, getting high or whatever activity he’s engaging in at the time, Charlie will often pore over his ever-growing assortment – the contents of which include: a piece of glass from his fairytale night with the Waitress at the Jersey Shore; a potato chip which bears more than a striking resemblance to a cat’s head; a lock of the Waitress’ hair – taken from her during the fall of ’06 when she’d been suffering from a nasty bout of flu (and naturally, Charlie had taken it upon himself to nurse her back to health by breaking into her apartment, mopping her clammy forehead and combing her sweat-soaked hair as she slept); a large, fossilised turd which can only have belonged to a dragon; and now – his most holy of holies – a large, purple rubber cock.

After Monday night’s main event, Dee and Charlie had spent the rest of the night just shooting the shit. They lay together on Dee’s bed, legs intertwined, hands lazily exploring one another, and they talked about anything and every fucking thing until thoughts became harder to articulate, impassioned chatter became little more than sporadic mumbling, and touching seemed alien and inappropriate.

When Dee left the bedroom to take a shower, Charlie muttered an impulsive and somewhat sobering goodbye. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to spend more time with her – far from it. His mind was now racing with thoughts of Dee: her scent, her acerbic exterior and the way it contrasts with the image of her coming – vulnerable and red-faced and completely satisfied in a way he’d never really seen before, and how when they’re alone together all the stupid and confusing shit in the world doesn’t seem to matter anymore. 

As a result, Charlie did two things before he left Dee’s apartment that morning. The first had been to take a lengthy, deep whiff of her faintly coconut-scented pillow, and the second had been to unclip and swipe the rubber boner from the nightstand. He couldn’t explain  _ why _ he felt this particular piece belonged in the Charlie Kelly Hall of Memories, but perhaps he’d try and work out these crazy-ass noises in his brain over a can of spray paint at some point. It was the only logical solution, really.

 

He’d been doing a bang-up job of it (with, admittedly, a few detours into crafting a kickass ode to denim chicken somewhere around his third hit) when Dee had barged in wanting to talk about it all. How could she have worked out her feelings already? Did she even have feelings? Maybe it was all about banging and she was going to tell him it was a just a crazy, drug-fuelled mistake they should forget about. Would that make him feel relieved? Should it? The only thing that was clear was that he’d not had nearly enough quality time with the chemicals, and he needed some goddamn space. Because regardless of what she had to say, he didn’t want to fuck up the Gang, or his friendship with Dee. 

There was an easygoing familiarity to being alone with Dee that he couldn’t really explain, and that the rest of the Gang would never understand anyhow. They were both losers in their own right, both getting shit on by those closest to them, both the butt of jokes that Charlie didn’t quite get but seemed, at times, to cut Dee to the quick. Hanging out alone with Dee was like being part of a secret club – the way he and Frank have Night Crawlers or Mac and Dennis have, like, everything – where they could be the biggest fuckups on the planet and it didn’t matter. 

Maybe it was inevitable that they’d go and do something stupid like bang and ruin it all. After all, the ecstasy escapade was a shining example of Charlie and Dee at their finest. But that’s not what he wants, and if Dee hadn’t interrupted his huffing, maybe he could have made her see that.

But she’d left royally pissed anyway, and the next time he saw her was when she’d strolled into Paddy’s with the supreme douchebag in tow, and the shitstain has been unscrubbable ever since.

****

It’s one in the morning, and Charlie, Dee, Mac and Ian are the last men standing. Dennis had departed some time ago, his disdain for Ian – and particularly the way Mac hangs upon his every word – flagrantly apparent. Frank had said his goodbyes at around ten-thirty, and had left the bar with a toothless, gin-scented, redheaded skank pawing at his crotch. Charlie simply hadn’t been in the mood for sleeping in the closet tonight. (Although, in hindsight, it would have been a damn sight more favourable than the riveting  _ Ian Beaufort Show _ he’s being subjected to now.)

Dee seems happy. She smiles, that razor-blade smile reserved for eviscerating any haughty bitch who ever looked down on her, and she laughs at all of Ian’s bullshit stories. But she’s not the kind of happy he’d seen when they were down in the sewers, and not the kind of happy she’d been with her hand between her legs as Charlie had watched in awe from the foot of her bed. He wishes now that he’d asked to lick her fingers after; bet she tastes even better than shampoo, maybe even better than cheese, he thinks wistfully.

The fucker doesn’t even drink beer, for Christ’s sake. What sort of dickhole is too good for a cold one? Ian Beaufort, evidently. Some pretentious concoction called a Singapore Sling is his poison, and apparently – as he’s informed the Gang on several occasions so far, cheerfully mixing his own beverage as if he fucking works at Paddy’s – “They don’t even  _ drink _ these in Singapore, you know.” Fascinating, bro. Truly.

Charlie considers taking himself to the Bad Room to break a few bottles. Perhaps scrawl a doodle of Ian on the wall and smash them over his smug fucking face. He’d been a fool to think he could wait the fucker out, because every syllable the man utters feels like a rusty nail being driven deep into his brain, and the commotion of anger and hysteria bubbling up inside soon becomes intolerable. He’s not right for Dee, and the thought of her spending one more night with this cuntrag hurts way too fucking much.

“So anyway,  _ now _ I’ve got  _ all _ these asswipe publishers beating down my door offering me book deals like some  _ slut  _ in an alley handing out four-dollar blow jobs.” Ian slaps the bar and howls as though this is the most clever shit anyone has dared to utter, but to Charlie he sounds like every villain to ever grace a movie screen in the ’80s. Prick. “But I keep  _ telling _ them, you know, I’m just  _ so busy, _ what with my über successful company and my travels, so  _ if _ I can fit it into my schedule,  _ then _ we’ll see. But they  _ just _ keep  _ calling.” _

This final anecdote is like a dentist’s drill to the eye. Charlie’s mind buzzes with an amalgamation of colours, sounds and shapes – deep reds and the tormented squeals of rusted, serrated edges – and he hurries away to the bathroom in a futile attempt to clear his head before he does something he might regret.

The problem is, Charlie can’t clear his head. His life is turning upside-down and he is powerless to stop it. His usually comforting Waitress time is being hampered by thoughts of Sweet Dee Reynolds, and the only thing that would genuinely alleviate his turmoil at this point is burning Ian Beaufort alive and pissing on his ashes.

He decides to take a leaf out of Frank’s book, but pauses just short of untying his sneaker to flush down the toilet when Mr. Singapore Sling himself enters the vicinity, conversing with somebody on his cellphone.

He’s laughing – because the fucker is always laughing like life’s a giant fucking carnival – and completely oblivious to the fact that he’s not taking a piss in private. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. “No bro, I’m  _ slumming _ it again tonight.” It’s quiet for a moment before he snorts in response to the other side of the call. “You have  _ no  _ idea. She’s  _ barely _ a step up from a prostitute, but why not save a little dough when you can,  _ right? _ Smart investing, bro, take note.” 

At the word prostitute, Charlie’s jaw clenches, and he grips the edge of the toilet bowl so hard he imagines the ancient plumbing might actually give way. Charlie can taste rage at this point, like a hot, thick, lump of tar stuck in his throat, and he tries to move past it; he really does. Beating the everloving shit out of Ian would just piss Dee off, and she’s barely spoken to him since that day in the basement as it is. But no matter how hard he tries to gulp down the acrid hatred churning inside of him, it keeps coming back up like vomit. 

On the other hand, pissing Dee off is something the Gang does on a daily basis anyway. She’d get over it. And goddammit, this asshole deserves it. 

“I give it three more days before I’m _bored_ and drop this bitch. We’ll go hunt some _quality_ puss next weekend. Sound good? Alright, later bro.” Ian flushes the urinal and pauses – probably to check his oh-so-perfect reflection in the mirror (God forbid one of his oily strands of hair be out of place) – before muttering to himself on the way out. _“God,_ what an absolute _shithole_.”

_ Oh, Ian, you’ve made it so easy. _ It really is the final fucking straw in a truckload of them. Until now, Charlie’s suspicions about this cocksucker had been borne, for the most part, out of jealousy and a general burning hatred of everything the man stands for. And that’s something Charlie could have swallowed, in the name of friendship and shit. But now it’s crystal clear that this fucker is no good for Dee, really no fucking good. If anyone gets to make Sweet Dee cry, it’s the Gang, not this goddamn son of a bitch. There’s that screeching drill again – growing louder, ever louder – grinding away at the last of his good sense, and suddenly his ears feel like they’re on fire. Fuck this fucker. Fuck everything.

Fuck it.

****

Charlie storming downstairs isn’t an unusual occurrence – after all, the basement is where all the strongest inhalants belong – but Charlie marching back into the bar, red-faced, emitting an ear-piercing scream and brandishing a sex toy is quite possibly the last thing Dee expected to happen tonight. He leaps at Ian like a feral cat, one hand clawing at the man’s exquisitely tailored suit and the other beating him mercilessly around the head with his makeshift weapon. Ian attempts in vain to fight him off, but Charlie is relentless, nimble, and utterly savage. Charlie bashes him around the face, the throat, the torso, and at one point, he even takes a hefty blow from the dick to the dick.

Dee doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, scream, or commend herself on a job well done. She’s grateful, she supposes, that Charlie hadn’t gone for the rat stick. That could have been messy. After the initial shock and bemusement of the display, Mac breaks them apart with a “Jesus Christ, dude!” just as Charlie’s teeth sink into Ian’s left earlobe with a sickening crunch, and he holds Charlie’s arms behind his back as Ian falls to the ground in the foetal position – a broken man in every sense – cradling his bruised and bloodied face in his hands.

After prying it from Charlie’s vice-like grip and kicking the boner across the floor, Mac helps the hapless victim to his feet, and drapes Ian’s arm around his shoulder. He mutters something about getting the man to a hospital as they stagger towards the exit, and Charlie glowers at them with a chilling half-smirk upon his face, his hands balled into tight fists.

“And stay gone!” Charlie screeches, as the door slams shut. He’s breathing heavily, his clothing is peppered with droplets of fresh blood, sweat is glistening from his brow and there’s a gleam in his eye that almost convinces Dee not to question him. Almost.

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Charlie?” Even for a self-proclaimed “Wild Card”, pummelling a man with a pleasure device is pretty fucking insane.

“What the fuck? What the fuck? That asswipe’s a goddamn turd in a suit, Dee!” 

“Oh yeah? Well what do you care, huh, Charlie? You’ve got your precious Waitress and your goddamn cat utopia, or whatever the fuck you were so hung up on the other day. So what’s it matter to you if I wanna fuck some dickturkey for a while?”

“He had it coming,” Charlie growls, wiping his sodden forehead with the back of his shirtsleeve.

“You beat him with a goddamn dildo. Where the fuck did you even-” Dee stops, finally taking a good look at the bloody rubber cock lying on the floor, and suddenly it hits her like a cartoon frying pan to the face. “That’s my dildo! What the fuck, Charlie?”

“Yeah? So?” Charlie snaps. “What does it even matter, Dee? I keep things that mean something, and you would too if you had a heart in that dickturkey-fucking, cat-hating body of yours.” He falls silent, and as his gaze meets Dee’s, she isn’t altogether sure whether he wants to fuck her or murder her. Maybe both. Hopefully not at once.

Regardless, it’s perfectly clear to Dee now that this is all a matter of jealousy, and she couldn’t be more pleased with the way she yanked her little puppet’s strings to perfection. But it’s not enough to know it; she wants to make Charlie say it. After the way he blew her off in the basement, she goddamn deserves it.

“Oh, I’m the one that doesn’t have feelings?” She straightens herself up so that she’s looking down on him, and jabs a finger into his chest. “You’re the one who’d rather get high and rant about cats than have a goddamn conversation, like a goddamn adult.”

“You don’t know anything,” he shouts, smacking her hand away. “Fuck you.”

_ Oh, that damn well does it.  _

Everything happens suddenly after that, and in no time at all, shouting devolves into shoving, and each takes a few turns before they’re simply bracing against each other in a bizarre sort of stalemate. They remain that way for what feels like an eternity, before Dee finally pulls back and slaps Charlie in a split-second fit of exasperation.

“Fuck me? You wish,” Dee sneers. “You had your fucking chance, dickhole.”

The slap barely registers, but Charlie stops cold all the same. Dee can practically see the metaphorical light bulb flashing over his head as he puzzles out what the whole Ian debacle has really been about.

“You did this to make me jealous.” He glares at her from beneath lowered brows, and his eyes are wide – too fucking wide – and the manic fury that had been so unquenchable before dissolves into an expression of eerie calm. “Oh, you bitch. You goddamn bitch.”

Dee opens her mouth but doesn’t manage to speak – not for lack of a pithy retort, but because at that moment, Charlie’s hands are all over her, one on the small of her back pulling her body to his, the other in her hair, and his mouth is hot and wet pressing against her own. He forces her lips apart with his tongue and it’s like the air has been sucked out of the room. Charlie tastes of stale beer and cheese, but Dee doesn’t mind; there’s no time to dissect it or overthink it or do anything but ride this moment as long as it lasts.

And it does fucking last. Furniture is knocked asunder and glasses shatter and smash and are crushed underfoot as they blindly stumble their way around Paddy’s in a turbulent embrace. Charlie’s forceful hands tear Dee’s shirt open, and she loses some buttons in the process – they ping to the floor like Ian Beaufort’s teeth. It’s all a blur of inelegant pulling and pushing – interspersed with soft, eager groans and whimpers – with no thought or destination in sight. Dee recalls her dream, suddenly aching for Charlie, aching to test his lithe tongue, and desperate to bring her masturbatory fantasy to fruition. They don’t stop to take a breath until Dee finds herself backed against the pool table, and with zero grace, she falls back over it as Charlie’s mouth works its way down her neck to her bare breasts. He licks, sucks and nips at each one in turn, making Dee writhe in pleasure, before dropping to his knees, yanking off her pants and underwear as he does so.

There’s barely a beat before his face is in her pussy, his agile tongue exploring and tasting and savouring, his facial hair gently grazing the tender insides of her thighs. He eats her out like she’s his last meal on earth – his own moans of satisfaction only just outdone by her own. He sucks at her clit again and again, and slips two nimble, calloused fingers inside of her with ease, working them with increased vigour as her pleasured groans echo around the cavernous quiet of the bar.

It feels so fucking good that for a fleeting moment Dee fears she’ll wake up and it’ll all come crashing down again, with a crunch of Cheetos and a scoff of disdain. But aside from the ravenous slurps and moans emanating from the pair, Paddy’s is all but silent. No fucking dream could do this shit justice anyway, Dee thinks, and thank fuck for that. 

Charlie is tireless and utterly thorough, as if making Dee come is the only thing he were born to do. He grips her thigh with his free hand, all the while burying himself deeper with every impatient whine. As much as Dee wants to come all over his stupid hairy face – Charlie’s dogged ministrations guarantee that she won’t last much longer – right now what she wants more than anything is for him to shove his fat cock inside of her and fuck her senseless.

“Oh  _ fuck, _ Charlie, God,” she groans, tangling her fingers in his hair and begrudgingly pulling him off her cunt and up to meet her face.

Mac could walk back in at any second now, but she’ll be damned if she cares. She can taste her own arousal on Charlie’s reddened lips as their mouths meet once more, and her hands scramble for Charlie’s zipper until she succeeds in freeing his cock  _ at fucking last. _ He’s hard and thick in her hand – thicker than she remembers, even – and Dee shimmies into a better position, giving him a few sloppy strokes as she does so, which cause his desperate moans to reverberate deep into her mouth.

On another night Dee might have insisted on sucking him dry and showing off all her best moves – slurping and humming and teasing until he’s practically sobbing her name when he comes. But there’s no time for that now; she’s throbbing and wet and doesn’t want anything except Charlie fucking Kelly filling every millimetre of her pussy. 

“Fuck me, fuck me now, Charlie, fuck me,” she chants, the closest thing to an invocation Deandra Reynolds has ever uttered in her life. 

Ever obedient, Charlie guides himself inside with a gasp of satisfaction, and no amount of foreplay in the world could have prepared Dee for the delicious fullness she experiences as he does so. Definitely thicker than she remembers.

Once completely enveloped in Dee’s warmth, Charlie wastes no time building momentum – one hand gripping at her shoulder as the other roughly gropes her breast, and Dee wraps her legs around him, clutching at his ass to urge him deeper still. She needs him there, buried in deep, entirely hers, and each roll of his hips brings her that much closer to losing herself completely.

It’s by no means a gentle affair – all of the evening’s aggression and lust fuelling every sharp, frantic thrust – and before long Paddy’s swells with discordant moans and vulgar grunts. They come at last, sweating and panting and clinging to each other as they ride out one motherfucker of an orgasm together. 

It would be a cliche to say that this was the best sex Dee has ever had (and granted, she’s had a lot of men – so it’s hard to say with absolute certainty), but none of those encounters have ever been like this. Fucking Charlie is satisfying in a way that’s alien to Dee, and for once it’s not about anybody getting theirs like it’s some kind of competition. They’re in this shit together, and there’s something weirdly gratifying in that.

They part reluctantly and lie side by side, and Charlie takes Dee’s hand in his own, as his other toys absentmindedly with the 8-ball. They share a moment of serenity, and Dee is overwhelmed by a formidable sense of belonging. This isn’t just about banging. Not anymore. Dee spares a glance at Charlie, who is staring at the ceiling with a look of absolute contentment, and she cannot help but smile. She opens her mouth to speak – to make a joke and ease herself back into familiarity – but the words stick in her throat like glue. It’s Charlie who eventually breaks the silence.

“So,” he asks cautiously, “where do we go from here?”

Overcome with exhaustion and exhilaration, Dee giggles awkwardly and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Therapy,” she replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	5. 5:45 PM on a Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Dubois is on the case.

Save for the muffled sounds of Mac and Dennis’ game of pool, and the occasional clearing of a mucus-filled nasal passage (courtesy of the one or two degenerates who consistently prop up the bar during business hours), Paddy’s is relatively silent.

In the smoke-filled back office, amidst an array of discarded cigarette butts, empty glasses and beer bottles, sits Dee, like an errant school kid facing her principal – who in this instance, is Artemis Dubois.

Artemis, dressed as a police officer – complete with hat, lace-up boots, a taser and a nightstick clipped to her belt – takes a long, deep drag of the joint she’s holding and drums her bubblegum-pink fingernails against the surface of the desk.

“So, let me get this straight,” Artemis begins, as she flicks the smouldering tip into the remnants of her whiskey sour, where it lands with a delicate sizzle. “You’re banging Charles, and you want me to... what, exactly?”

“I need you to talk with the Gang,” Dee replies. “Scope ’em out, you know? Look,” she continues, taking a grateful toke on Artemis’ proffered spliff, “those guys have, like, a really specific dynamic. And I kind of don’t want to screw that up. Not in this way, anyhow.”

Artemis raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Don’t teach your grandmother how to suck cocks, Deandra. You just want to know if they give two shits, right?”

Artemis is perceptive as shit even when she’s not dressed as one of Philly’s finest, and Dee – motivated by the uncomplicated desire to bang Charlie fucking Kelly as and when she damn well pleases – simply can’t find it within herself to argue.

“I guess,” she replies, with a scowl. As much as it pains her to admit it, the Gang actually  _ giving a shit _ with regard to any aspect of her life is a tantalising prospect. However, it’s gone way beyond that now. In a mere six days, she and Charlie have connected in a way she never thought possible before, and she’s found herself craving movie nights together in sweatpants, long walks (sewer detours included) chatting about whatever-the-fuck, and Charlie’s warmth wrapped around her as they fall into a blissful, post-coital slumber. Her thoughts and feelings regarding Charlie prior to this week have become nothing but a faded memory: filmed in Super 8 and muffled as if underwater. Sometimes it’s hardest to see what’s right before your eyes.

“He beat the shit out of this jerkoff I was banging,” Dee says, taking a sip of her beer and tactfully deciding not to mention Charlie’s weapon of choice, or her inscrutable urge for snuggles and a white-picket fence. “Complete asshole, Armani suit, more money than balls. I met him at Sudz; that neon hellhole seemed like the perfect place to find a guy like him. Anyway, I should have been horrified – the dude was a fucking mess after Charlie got through with him – but in a way, it was goddamn gratifying to know somebody cared so much.”

“Ian Beaufort?” Artemis smirks. “I’d heard you two bumped uglies.” She pauses, leans back in her seat and inhales a protracted drag through her teeth. “I had my way with him a couple of years ago. Him and his pal Tommy Sestero.” She snorts, and tiny wisps of smoke exude from her nostrils, putting Dee in mind of Charlie’s bewildering yet adorable belief that dragons exist. “They had me from both ends like a Chinese finger trap. Great cock. I oughta call him.”

“I can tell you with some certainty that he’s not gonna want to see another dick again for a while,” Dee says, biting her bottom lip in an attempt not to burst out laughing.

Artemis seems not to notice. “Leave it to me, sugar-tits,” she says, tossing her hair back with an authoritative flourish. “Ten minutes alone with each of these dickholes and I’ll have them singing like alley cats in heat. Now, go, Ms. Reynolds,” she continues, somewhat melodramatically as she gestures towards the door, “and send in the first perp.”

****

The first perp, in this instance, is Dennis – who begrudgingly enters the back office, slamming the door behind him.

“What happened to therapy?” Charlie hisses, as Dee joins him at the bar.

“That was the plan,” Dee replies. “But I haven’t paid that bitch in six months. Artemis was the next best thing.”

“She’s gonna know all of our business,” Charlie protests, his bottom lip protruding like a petulant child who’s just been told more candy will spoil his dinner. 

“This is Artemis, dicknose. She’s not gonna remember a goddamn word of this tomorrow,” says Dee, with a derisive snort. “So, how about you and I go down into the basement and do a little interrogation of our own?”

Charlie gulps down the rest of his beer with a belch and a bashful grin. Dee hates how fucking cute he looks, and can’t wait to wipe that smile off his goddamn face – preferably by swallowing him down to the balls until he’s begging her to let him come.

****

“Alright, handsome,” Artemis purrs, propping her feet up on the desk with a thud as Dennis shuts the door behind him and takes a seat across from her, “do you know why you’re here right now?”

Dennis lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag, the smoke curling furiously overhead like fingers clawing up from a fresh grave. Aside from a desk lamp set atop the computer monitor in an extremely crude attempt to replicate an interrogation room, the back office is dim – and dank with the pungent aroma of weed and Poison. (Artemis’ perfume, if he had to guess; Dee has worn the same god-awful floral abomination since she was in high school.) There was a time when being interrogated by a police uniform-clad Artemis Dubois would have begged further questioning, but random insanity at Paddy’s is so commonplace now that this hardly even merits a raised eyebrow.  

“Honestly,” Dennis says, “I don’t give a shit, but I’d imagine it will be a lot more interesting than listening to Mac try and tell me about his night at the goddamn Rainbow for the eighteenth time, so let’s do whatever the fuck this is.”

It’s probably some weird sex shit with Frank anyhow, though he hopes to God it isn’t. The less involvement he has with Frank and his junk the better. Jesus Christ.

“Why don’t you tell me about your week,” Artemis begins. “Anything interesting happen around here that you’d like to talk about? Maybe something you’d like to get off that chiselled chest of yours?”

Dennis nearly snorts. She really has no idea what a loaded question that is. “You wanna know about my week? I’ll tell you all about that shit,” he says, the rancid flavour of the experience sitting on his tongue like a pile of fresh dog shit. Days have passed since The Incident, as he’s come to think of it, but time has done nothing to mollify his rage. He sits up straight and flicks the ashes of his cigarette into the nearby ashtray. “I have to warn you, though. It’s a tale of audacity and boorish incivility the likes of which may make your blood boil.”

Artemis leans forward in her chair and pulls out a small pad of paper, ready to take down Dennis’ account. “In your own time.”

“It all started Monday night. Frank blew in with some half-cocked enterprise and a bag of X – nothing out of the ordinary there – and we were all gonna turn it for a quick buck.” He pauses and rolls his eyes. “Well – I was, anyway. The rest of those morons were gonna flounder with their nonsensical, doomed-to-fail ideas like they always do, but I had my eyes on the greenest pasture of all, where the girls are just this side of legal and looking for a taste of sweet, sweet rebellion.”

Artemis nods knowingly. “College campus?”

“Naturally,” Dennis smirks. “But don’t interrupt. Anyway, I knew I would be able to unload my share  _ and _ blow my load before the others had even managed to pull their heads out of their asses long enough to realise what they had. And it was all too easy to find the right target – may I?”

Artemis hands over her pen and pad, and Dennis quickly sets to work sketching out a somewhat rudimentary drawing of a large-breasted woman sitting on a bench, long dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders. “The library was naturally the best choice, because you want a girl bookish enough to have some self-esteem issues, maybe a little something to prove, but not too smart – the last thing you want is a prude, am I right? So anyway, I had my mark, and I was ready to show these cocky dipshits a thing or two. Really give a master class in the Dennis Reynolds Art of Seduction.”

A smug, blissful smile briefly flits across Dennis’ face as he considers how things should have gone down. It was a very simple plan, goddammit – practically foolproof. And it would have worked perfectly if not for all the goddamn outside meddling. 

“I slide in next to her, nice and close, so that when she turns to talk to me, she’s pressing against my chest – giving her the opportunity to feel my perfectly sculpted pecs. Make her the sort of offer she can’t refuse, as it were. Not that ‘can’t’ would even enter into the equation, of course. What woman in her right mind would turn down this?” Dennis gestures at his physique to illustrate the point (this shirt does great things for the nips) before continuing. “Certainly not some simple girl, who – while perfectly fuckable – needed another two cup sizes and a dye job to really be considered stunning.”

Dennis pauses for another pull on his smoke, fingers digging into the arm of the chair as the past indignity plays out before him all over again. “I’m laying it on thick, you know, doing some of my finest work, truly – but this girl’s not having it. It’s like she’s purposely ignoring me! Who the fuck behaves like that? It’s just goddamn rude is what it is, so naturally, I let her have it. And I mean I’m really tearing into her, because she’s never gonna change otherwise. But what I didn’t anticipate was the fairly sizeable crowd that had started to gather. Real white knight types,” he sneers. “It was getting pretty problematic by this point – a lot of glaring and muttering and shit – and then one of the misinformed bozos decides to get in my face about it.”

He taps his cigarette against the ashtray once more before taking another puff to steady his nerves. “He was all, ‘Oh my God, what is wrong with you?’ So I say, ‘Me? What’s wrong with _ me? _ What’s wrong with her? I have been unbelievably polite, and charming, and this bitch – yes, I went there – won’t say a word to me! What kind of person behaves like that?’” His voice is wavering now, shaking with rage and indignation that has sat, smouldering, just beneath the surface for six interminable days. “And the uppity bitch is  _ still  _ refusing to say a damn word, and she’s gesturing like crazy, so I’m like, ‘Come on, you’re not nearly hot enough to get away with snubbing a guy like me.’ She was a solid seven, at best. ‘So, really – what, exactly, is your problem?’”

He grits his teeth and sighs, the cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers. “And that’s when it happens.”

Artemis leans forward, hands folded underneath her chin. “Go on.”

“Mister White Knight rides up on his high horse and says – in the hautiest tone imaginable, might I add, ‘She’s fucking deaf, you asshole.’” He chuckles, though nothing about it is jovial. “As if I’m supposed to know just by looking. That’s insanity; that’s goddamn political correctness gone mad is what that is!”

His tale finally told, Dennis sinks back in his seat, red-faced and damp with sweat, and stubs the remains of the cigarette out in the ashtray. Artemis immediately offers him another, but he waves her off. It’s too goddamn hot in here; he needs a fucking drink. And maybe some quality time with that drawing.

“So,” he says, after regaining some semblance of composure, “did I verbally assault a deaf chick? Yes – but not intentionally. And that’s really the important thing to take away here.” 

Artemis purses her lips and jots a couple of notes on her pad.  _ Dennis. Deaf girl. Could use a couple of downers, but otherwise oblivious as shit.  _ “Mmhm, mmhm. So, nothing else you’d like to add to the record then?”

Dennis thinks for a second. “Yes. No- you know what? They should really make them wear signs. There – I said it.”

****

After being summoned forth by a somewhat more irate than usual Dennis, Frank takes a seat opposite Artemis, wincing as she angles the desk lamp to shine right into his eyes.

“I don’t know what this is about,” he grunts as he empties the contents of his pockets – a glass bubbler pipe, a gun and a large mason jar containing a lettuce leaf and a snail with a glittery blue number six painted on its shell – onto the desk between them. “But I’m sure as shit down with this cop ensemble. You gonna wear that tonight or what?”

“I have a cantaloupe and a hosepipe in the car,” replies Artemis, with a salacious wink. “But for now, lover, I’m all business – and I’m gonna need you to tell me about your week.”

She tosses him a bag of grass, and he packs a generous amount into his pipe bowl, lights and takes a protracted, rumbling toke.

“It started with Pondy’s ass pills,” Frank begins, through a dense cloud of grey-blue smoke. “I’d sent the guys off to hawk ’em wherever, and I decide to take my share of the goods – probably about ten or so pills – down to see Duncan and his crew under the bridge. I figure if anyone knows how to have a good time, it’s those guys.”

Artemis uncaps her pen and begins to jot a few notes. “Go on.”

“Now, ol’ Dunc didn’t have much in the way of coin,” Frank continues. “But I walked away with twenty bucks, a couple of tabs of acid, and a tip about the latest craze all the bridge crew have been busting their nuts over – metaphorically speaking. Korean Snail Racing.”

“The snails are Korean?” Artemis asks, eyeing the mason jar with curiosity.

Frank, in the midst of another lengthy pull on his pipe, guffaws into a fit of coughing. Tears stream down his beet-red face as he replies, “The guys running it are Korean. Apparently it’s fucking huge over there. Anyway, Duncan gives me an address, and I drop the two tabs of acid and get on my merry way.”

Artemis, unsure if any of this will relate to Charlie and Dee’s current situation, but eager nonetheless to hear Frank’s tale, puts her fingers to her mouth in thought and leans back in her chair.

“So, there I am in the basement of Mrs Chang’s laundromat, surrounded by these Korean fellas. They’re all chatting and smoking and pouring each other this milky-white booze that smells like paint thinner, and we’re all sat around a huge-ass table with this little racetrack carved into it – and it’s real intricate work, too – with a checkered finish line at one end, and eight fat little snails at the other. Anyway, I set my sights on number six. He’s a little smaller than the rest, and the guys all slap me on the back and cheer and shit when I put my money down. ‘Three hundred on Speedy Jim,’ I say. I’d got about two grand in my wallet but they didn’t need to know that.”

Frank takes a moment for a sip of whiskey and an affectionate glance at the snail in the jar, and continues. “Some time later and the race is well underway, but snails being snails means we were about half an hour in, and they’d probably shifted about four inches. And my acid’s starting to kick in – big time. I’m glancing from face to face and they’re all laughing and cheering and counting their money – except for this one dude in an expensive-looking grey suit who’s silent as hell, and he’s just leaning back in his seat with his arms folded. He’s a sober-looking motherfucker, with a shock of pure white hair and a black leather eyepatch. None of the other guys are daring to chat to him, or even go near him; every so often one of them will bow and offer him some booze but that’s about it. 

“And I’m watching the way he’s watching the snails, and I start to feel a little on edge. By this point I’m sweatin’ up a storm, and I’m beginning to sympathise with these poor snails, you know? Sort of feeling like a snail myself, and the more I look at this stern eyepatch-wearing motherfucker – this Korean Godfather – the more concerned I get for Speedy Jim. The guys around me are getting louder and more agitated – they’re whooping and screeching and banging their glasses of that death-liquor on the table – the snails have moved another half-inch or so, Speedy Jim has the lead and I’m abso-fucking-lutely sure that this shady bastard is gonna do something unspeakable if his snail doesn’t win. So, I take a moment and weigh up my options. I look at this guy, I look at the snails, and before I even realised what I was doing I’d pulled out my gun, shoved Speedy Jim in my pocket and was up those stairs like a rat up a drainpipe.”

“You stole a prize-winning snail from a Korean gambling ring?” Artemis asks, with a tone of mock-surprise. Nothing is too peculiar when it comes to a day in the life of Frank Reynolds.

“Of course,” Frank replies, gesturing at the jar. “I liberated this poor slimy bastard. I could hear them all behind me, scrambling over furniture and yelling; I’m pretty sure I even heard a gunshot. Luckily there’s a storm drain right around the corner from Mrs Chang’s. I dove right in and took Speedy Jim with me. And you know what the weirdest part was? I’m pretty sure I saw Charlie and Dee down there, too. Naked as shit. I figured it was just the acid doing its thing, so I didn’t make much of it. So, I make my way back towards the bar, or at least that’s where I thought I was heading.”

“Charlie and Dee, you say? Interesting,” Artemis mutters with a nod as she scribbles down a few notes. “Continue, please.”

“When I surface I realise I’m at the wrong end of town, but at the very least I’m away from the Korean Snail Ring. It’s a pretty warm night so I take off my pants and lay them down to dry as I try and figure a way back home. Eventually I start heading east – completely oblivious to the fact that I’m still not wearing any pants. No matter, I think when I realise why my ass is getting so chilly; it’s not the first time I’ve roamed the streets half naked, and it certainly won’t be the last. I check my jacket pocket and Speedy Jim is still with me, at least. We get to chatting – me and Speedy Jim. He had a lot of interesting tales to tell – but I’ll be fucked if I can remember them now. He’s one hell of a singer, too; has a thing for show tunes. Anyways, we hit the corner of Hayes and Shapiro, and that’s where it all goes to shit.”

With his brow furrowed, Frank downs the remainder of his whiskey and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He can practically feel that cool breeze against his bare ass, even now. “It’s not a particularly busy intersection and it’s probably about two in the morning by this point, but every-goddamn-where I look, all I see is trails. So I’m stood waiting for a car to pass that probably passed about twenty minutes ago. And I’m still not wearing any pants. I must have been at that street corner for about three hours, and then I just gave up and fell asleep right there on the ground. I woke up with Speedy Jim sitting on my nose, and a bunch of disgusted-looking parents ushering their kids away from Crazy Snail Guy.”

“Sounds like quite a time,” Artemis grins. “Anything else of note happen this week?”

“It’s been a pretty slow one, truth be told,” says Frank, looking crestfallen. “We tried to apply for a license for the baby-fighting scheme, but the bastards wouldn’t go for it. Called it cruel and distasteful. What’s truly cruel, if you ask me, is allowing those kids to grow up not knowing how to throw a punch.”

“And the Gang?” Artemis questions. “Anything out of the ordinary there?”

Frank shrugs. “Except for the fact that Charlie and Dee are totally banging, there’s really not much happening.”

****

Twenty minutes after he went in, Frank emerges from the office cradling a jar full of salad greens and sends Mac back to give his account of the week’s events. 

“Have a seat, Mr. McDonald.”

Entirely businesslike, Artemis gestures to the empty chair across from her, ready to go into the requisite cop spiel one more time, but as it turns out there’s no need. Mac is like an eager puppy about to piss all over the carpet; before she can even ask about his week, he’s pulled up a seat, planted his elbows on the desk and launched into his own line of questioning.

“You ever heard of the Rainbow?” he asks.

Artemis snorts. “The gay bar down on Aya Street? Sweet summer child, what kind of sexual deviant do you take me for? Doesn’t matter if you’re gay or straight – everybody knows the Rainbow is  _ the  _ place to go to get your pickle tickled. They make a mean Jӓgerbomb, too. Three of those and you’ll be wearing your panties like a hat.”

Mac chooses to ignore that statement entirely. “Right, anyway. See, earlier this week we were gonna go out and sell some drugs Frank pulled out of Bill Ponderosa’s ass, and they sent me to the Rainbow, because I’m the only one comfortable enough in my sexuality to be fine with hitting up some gay bar.” Mac leans forward, his voice falling to a hushed whisper. “By the way, don’t tell those guys but I sold every bit of that shit – well, except for the one I took. Made a sweet hundred bucks.”

“You sampled the product?” Artemis asks, with no small amount of amusement. Every E trip she’s ever had has ended with her snowballing some random dude behind the Waffle Hut, and she can tell just by looking that Mac has got something dirty of his own to dish. “Why don’t you tell me just what your sweet ass got up to that night. For the record.”

“Well,” he begins, “it was Costume Cum-Down Night, so the place was crawling with weirdos. You would not believe the jabronis thinking they’ve got the mass to pull off a He-Man. But they were easy as shit to sell to; I was out of the ecstasy in like fifteen minutes, so I figured maybe I’d stick around for a drink to reward myself for doing such a kick-ass job. I’m halfway through my Long Island Iced Tea and feeling pretty damn good, when the throngs of costumed jerkoffs part and I see this priest just chilling by himself in the corner. This monster must have been like 6’4 easy, dark hair, cheekbones you could slice ham on. I was floored. A priest – in a place like the Rainbow! It felt like a sign. So I went over to introduce myself to the good Father, and the next thing I know I’d followed him out back into the alley. It was hot as holy fuck in there, and we both needed some air.

“And now, I don’t remember exactly how it went down, but one minute we’re talking about God and shit, and the next I’m on my knees, face to face with this humongous dick – I mean it’s a real meaty fucker, so I’m kinda feeling unsure of things – but that’s when it hits me. This is a transformative experience. This is like- like Communion! You take the body of Christ inside of you, and – boom, you’re changed! And this guy’s a priest – it’s like divine intervention. So I take this beautiful beefcake’s dick into my mouth and Mother. Of. God.” Mac grins like a fat kid eye-fucking a plate full of brownies and takes a big gulp of his beer. “I had never felt more attuned to God’s will for me.”

Artemis raises an amused eyebrow, barely able to hold back a chuckle. “Well, fuck me. If sucking cock is all it takes to get into heaven, then I have got one  _ hell  _ of a spot reserved up there.”

A quizzical look flits across Mac’s face, but he moves right past it, eager as shit to get to the good part. “So anyway, I don’t hesitate now, because I know without a doubt that this is what God wants me to do. I swallow this dude down to the balls, and I swear on my mother’s life the guy nearly nutted on the spot. But I gotta show him right up front that I don’t fuck around; establish that I’m the one in control here. I’m not some pussy-ass bitch that’s just gonna tease at the thing all day, no sir. And what’s great is that we were so in sync. He’s got his hands in my hair, grabbing and pulling, keeping me right where I wanna be, and I’m clutching his ass for better leverage myself – dude had great glutes. And I just know that this is exactly what I’ve been needing.”

Artemis nods sympathetically. “Been a while since you chowed down on some grade-A beefsteak hmm? We’ve all been there.”

Mac scrunches his nose like he’s gotten a whiff of Frank’s toe knife. “What? No! Ohh, no, see this wasn’t about my pleasure. This was about-” he lowers his voice and glances from side to side, “I’ve been having some thoughts lately. Sort of… gay… thoughts. And I was just gonna man up and crush them with my mind, but when I met the beefcake priest, I had an epiphany.”

“You did.”

“Oh, yes,” Mac says, his grin wide and practically gleaming. “Sometimes you’ve gotta confront your fears head-on and trust that God will show you the way. And that’s exactly what happened when I was going to town on that mouthful of meat. Did I mention the taste?”

Artemis, scribbling furiously in her notepad, doesn’t even look up. “No, but I really think you should. Leave nothing out; it’s all important to the investigation.”

“Right,” Mac continues, “so I’ve got this guy in deep, and he’s about the biggest goddamn cock you’ve ever seen, and I’m sliding my tongue all around him as best I can, feeling up every ridge and vein – the whole nine yards.”

More than a little bit flushed, Mac pauses to slam the rest of his beer. It’s definitely that goddamn desk lamp blasting him in the face that’s making it way too fucking hot in this bitch; totally not the story. Not even a little bit.

“Now, I know I said it wasn’t about my pleasure – and it totally wasn’t – but I couldn’t help but moan just a little. And, like, maybe I had a bit of chub going. You would too if you had this hot, thick dick banging the back of your throat. Apparently the noise I’m making just gets the guy going even harder. He’s grunting and thrusting and just slamming into me like a goddamn jackhammer, and I’m kinda struggling to keep up, you know? But I’m no fucking quitter. So all I can do at that point is just close my eyes, dig my fingers into the guy’s magnificent glutes and let him go as hard as he wants. It’s a goddamn show of strength on my part, because this fucker – let me tell you, he’s a hard-driving son of a bitch. Loud as shit, too. He’s all, ‘Fuck, you’re so good,’ and ‘Goddamn, you can take a cock,’ just on and on and on until all of a sudden he jerks my head back and says, ‘Let’s see how you take this.’ Before I can ask this jabroni what he’s talking about, he starts jerking it right before my eyes and wham! The guy’s blowing his load – in my face! And I was like  _ this  _ close to jumping up and saying ‘Hey, buddy – not cool!’ and bashing him real good, but then  _ another  _ epiphany washes over me. You see I realise, as I’ve got this hot, sticky – and also kinda salty – spunk running down my face, that I’ve been baptised anew. This is a sign that I’ve been reborn! God,” Mac sighs, licking his lips as if he can still taste his holy sacrament, “what an experience.”

It takes a lot to render Artemis Dubois speechless, but this nearly does the trick. She fans herself like a southern belle sweltering in the late-August heat and pulls out a fresh joint. “That sounds like one mothercunt of a good time, Ronald. Mercy.”

“Oh, it was,” Mac says, practically beaming with pride. “But most importantly, it cured my gay thoughts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow, you’re like the only person so far who’s let me finish. For some reason Dennis just gets pissed whenever I try to talk about it, and Dee and Charlie,” he shrugs, “I don’t know; they’re real weird lately.”

“Is that so?” Artemis asks, at once remembering the whole point of this exercise. “Did something else happen this week? Something with Dee and Charlie?”

“Oh, well Charlie beat the shit out of Dee’s latest victim with a goddamn dildo. I’ve never seen him that worked up. Except maybe that time he bit right into the mall Santa’s neck. But if you ask me, dude needs to lay off the spray paint for a while; it’s making him crazy.”

Artemis makes a note in her pad amidst the pornographic passages about girth and flavour and semen.  _ Mac knows nada. _ “You think it’s the paint. Interesting.”

“Yeah, obviously. Why else would he go after such a great guy like Ian out of the blue like that? You know? He’s so handsome and cultured – way too good for Dee, but that just goes to show how charitable he is, too. So yeah, gotta be the paint. Unless...” Mac’s mouth drops open, and his eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Maybe Ian was banging Mrs. Kelly! That’s gotta be it. If there’s one thing guaranteed to trigger Charlie’s psychotic tendencies, it’s being reminded that his mom is a giant whore.”

Mac purses his lips and nods to himself, pleased as shit with his super-sweet powers of deduction. Clearly, this insight from God is reward for giving such great head at the Rainbow on Monday. You represent Him good, and He takes care of you. Fact.

****

“I’ve got some bad news for you, Deandra,” says Artemis, as a rather dishevelled, yet satisfied-looking Dee joins her in the back office. “Frank is aware of your little tryst – but only mentioned it as an afterthought to his snail-stealing acid trip, and Dennis and Mac don’t know shit. Or if they do suspect, they’re all too wrapped up in their own exploits to give a flying fuck.”

Dee picks at the label on her beer bottle and sighs. It shouldn’t bother her so fucking much that the guys don’t care. After all, this is ultimately about her and Charlie; those cocksuckers shouldn’t even be a blip on her goddamn radar. Besides which, they’ve never given a shit before, so why should now be any different? It really shouldn’t bother her.

But goddammit, it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all agree that Frank/Speedy Jim is the true OTP here.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	6. 9:15 PM on a Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie and Dee figure it out.

It had always been easy enough for Dee to brush away the Gang’s collective jibes and insults, bid them farewell with a “Later, boners”, and head back to her apartment to cry, or masturbate, or both at once. That was just the Gang; it’s what they do. And, in a weird, fucked-up sort of way, it worked for her. All of their cruelty was easy enough to handle, because even vitriol has some kind of caring behind it, but _this_ – this goddamn silence – has always been the thing that worms its way under Dee’s skin and eats away at the most insecure part of her.

Bunch of self-involved pricks. All of them. Is it too much to ask that they give a shit regarding one goddamn aspect of her life? They ignored her pregnancy. They ignored her crack addiction. They ignore her acting career. They ignore every goddamn relationship she has – whether it’s a casual bang, a hapless mark for a scheme, or a potential life partner. Just for once, is it too fucking much for them to take an interest in just _one_ of her affairs? Sure, she’s not expecting a goddamn ceremony, but even casual ridicule would be welcome at this point. Mock and laugh and point at Sweet Dee! Tell her you’re not surprised she’s sunk so goddamn low. Something. _Any-fucking-thing._ Acknowledge me. For the love of God, acknowledge me.

It’s probably pathetic to hope for only the barest minimum from those assholes. Setting the bar real high there, Deandra. But they’re the lot she’s stuck with, and goddammit she deserves some kind of fucking satisfaction for all the bullshit she puts up with.

Dee flicks away the remains of her cigarette and sighs in frustration. She’s been spending a lot of time round the back of Paddy’s of late – collecting her thoughts with the sweet help of Mother Marlboro. Furthermore to her exasperation with regards to the Gang’s apparent indifference – just to add a little more turbulence to the barrage of emotions battling for dominance inside of her – Charlie had given her an envelope this morning, with a backwards letter ‘D’ scrawled upon it. The contents of which, Dee can only suppose, as she unfolds the piece of notebook paper for the tenth time today, is some sort of letter – written in Charlie’s unmistakable style:

The purple cock she kinda gets. But is that a turd? What the everloving shit, Charlie? She absentmindedly turns the paper this way and that as she paces the alley in a feeble attempt to make sense of, well, everything. Where the shit did these feelings even come from, anyway? Charlie has always been a constant in her life – from high school to Paddy’s and everything in between – so why has the thought of not spending her every waking hour with him now become unbearable? It’s goddamn pathetic, is what it is. Sweet Dee Reynolds – gone soft like one of those dumb chicks from an equally asinine romance movie. And he’s probably just gonna shit on her regardless. Maybe today, maybe ten years from now, but he will; there’s no doubt about that. Perhaps she should just cut her losses right fucking now. Is that a coconut?

She lights another cigarette, savouring the comforting, warm tendrils of smoke that fill her lungs as she inhales, anticipating that perhaps more nicotine with a side of nicotine will help her decode whatever it is that Charlie is trying to tell her. This would be so much easier if he’d just written her a song. Okay, that’s definitely a dog made out of condoms.

“Hey.” Charlie’s voice punctures the stillness from behind her, making Dee jump halfway out of her skin. “Can I bum one?”

“Shit, Charlie,” Dee replies, ceasing her agitated patrol. For the best, really; she was feeling dizzy as shit. Barely tearing her eyes away from the letter, she offers up her pack of cigarettes. “Sure, go nuts.”

“You, uh, you like the letter?” he asks, as Dee gives him a light. He takes a drag and shoots her a look of unnerving sincerity.

“Well. It’s very sweet, Charlie,” she says diplomatically, which sounds a hell of a lot better than _“I don’t understand a goddamn word of it; please explain.”_

“I know I’m not real good with words and shit, but it’s like, I don’t know.” He pauses, averts his gaze with a frown and flicks the ash from the end of his smoke. “I think I’d be good for you, you know? And maybe you’d be good for me.”

In spite of the bullshit weighing on her, Dee smiles at that. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

“But you’re still not happy,” says Charlie, looking crestfallen. Dee chides herself internally for being the cause, but goddammit she needs to get this off her chest.

She sighs and takes a long drag of her cigarette. “Those goddamn pricks in there… You know, they don’t give two fucks about anyone but themselves, and I know – I mean, I really do know – I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t expect anything more from any of them, especially Frank and Dennis. But goddammit, I’m tired of getting shit on. I’m tired of everything that happens in my life – good, bad, whatever – being ignored. How can they sit in there when my whole fucking life is changing and just have _no_ reaction at all? How, Charlie? Tell me goddamn how.” The injustice of it all sits bitterly in the back of Dee’s throat, and she feels no better from having vocalised it.

“But why does it even matter what they think?” Charlie says with a shrug. “Can’t we just do something for us? Can’t this just be ours?” He’s right, of course, but the Dee Reynolds Pity Party takes no prisoners. No surrender; no chance of retreat.

“Of course this is ours, but goddammit, I want-” She sighs; it’s going to sound so lame, but she’s too worked up to just forget it now. “I want them to care about it as much as I do. ’Cause I do, like, a lot, Charlie.”

“You say that like I don’t or something. Jesus, Dee! This week- this week has been, like, the best goddamn shit ever and-” he breaks off with a screech of exasperation as he snatches the letter from her hands and waves it around like a conductor on speed. “I thought I made all of this pretty damn clear already!”

As clear as a turd in a suit and a condom dog can be, sure. But Dee bites her tongue for once, in the interest of not shitting all over what really was a very nice gesture. Shit, she has gone soft. “You did, but-”

“But what?” Charlie asks, his voice rising to resemble something akin to an ostrich playing a kazoo. “It wasn’t good enough? You need more proof?”

Before Dee can respond, Charlie is all over her, lunging forward to grab her by the waist and smother her mouth with his own. He kisses like he’s on fire, all groping hands and probing tongue, with an intensity that never fails to get Dee going. She moans into his mouth as his hands clutch at her ass and tangle in her hair, and fuck if he doesn’t make her feel like she’s the most desirable woman in the whole goddamn world.

It’s exactly what she needs. He wasn’t wrong when he asked if she needed more proof; not entirely. Sure, the letter had bared his soul in the most Charlie way possible, but when you’ve got more than thirty years of being belittled and discarded under your belt, you tend to need constant, clear-cut reassurance. Yes, bitch, you really are good.

Merely sucking face isn’t what Charlie has in mind, however, and they stumble backwards, empty beer bottles skittering across the pavement as they careen past, until Dee slams into a dumpster with a hard thump and a muffled yelp. Fuck, that’s gonna bruise like shit. With Charlie’s dick already hard and pressing into her thigh, the discomfort is forgotten easily enough, and replaced by the sudden and overwhelming need to have him pound her cunt as hard and as fast as the cocksucker can manage.

Neither of them wastes time with the delicacies of foreplay or any of that gentle nonsense, and for a moment the alley is filled with nothing but the flurry of eager hands tugging and fumbling with inconvenient clothing, and the lewd moan of two zippers giving way. (And one goddamn alley cat mewling at the vulgar spectacle, but Dee chooses to ignore the fuck out of that.)

He stops kissing her long enough to share a look – half arousal, half “how’s this for proof?” – before he angles himself just so and pushes into her with a low, heady grunt.

Goddamn, she’ll never be over how thick the motherfucker is; he’s stretching her wide – damn near to the breaking point – and Dee can’t decide whether she wants to sob, scream or beg him to never, ever goddamn stop.

Charlie utters a groan of satisfaction as he begins to move, rocking his hips torturously slow – slow enough that Dee nearly orders him to pick up the pace and goddamn fuck her like he means it. But she resists the temptation, instead clenching around his cock in a way she knows will make the fucker squirm, and sure enough the languid roll of his hips quickly builds to the rough, frantic thrusting that Dee needs. She grasps at him – fingers clutching at his ass and clawing his shoulder – ready to ride him until they’re both screaming each other’s names and praying for this moment to last forever. Yes, _fuck,_ this is more like it.

He gasps a strangled “Dee” – the only coherent word he can manage – and buries himself in further and further, every movement accompanied by a jarring _thump, thump, thump_ as he fucks her against the cool, hard metal.

The very concept of Dee Reynolds achieving orgasm through penetration alone is goddamn inconceivable – ludicrously so, in fact. Yet here she is, conceding the power she covets so dearly, having her brains fucked out in the most quintessential Charlie ‘Dirtgrub’ Kelly manner imaginable – backed up against a filthy-ass dumpster with Charlie’s equally grime-encrusted fingernails digging into her thigh as his fat cock hammers deep inside of her, filling every inch of her pussy and it’s coming, holy mother of fuck it’s coming-

“Oh, goddamn, Charlie. _Fuck, yes.”_

Their lips meet in a frenzied assault of need and desperation as her body gives in to the utter fucking delinquency of it all, her muffled moans of pleasure reverberating deep into Charlie’s mouth. He thrusts into her once, twice, three times more – each of which heightens and prolongs the rolling wave of euphoria enveloping every inch of her – before slamming into her a final time as he comes with a roar of profanity, his whole body shuddering from the release.

 

Spent, exhausted, but now fully dressed (if not more than a little dishevelled), they sit side by side on the cool concrete in a brief period of calm while they regain their composure.

With her heart pounding a mile a minute – unsure of whether she’s still revelling in the afterglow or whether she’s overwhelmed with the enormity of what she feels she needs to say right now, Dee breaks the silence. “Hey, look. I want you to know… I mean, I want to tell you a thing, and I don’t want you to freak out. Fuck, this is hard.”

The words stick in her throat. It’s not that she doesn’t want to say them, or even that she’s afraid he won’t say them back. Rejection and Dee Reynolds go way back – to the womb even. But feeling something like this for somebody who isn’t herself? It’s alien and it’s unexpected (and it’s making her want to dry-heave just a little) – and more than anything, she doesn’t want to fuck this up.

“Charlie, I think- I think maybe…” Dammit. God-fucking-dammit. He’s looking at her like she’s the centre of his entire fucking world – a look that Charlie Kelly reserves for shit like fancy cheeses and worm hats and brand new cans of spray paint – and Dee’s nerve withers like a gay guy’s boner at a titty bar. Maybe it’s not the time after all. Or maybe she’s just a goddamn pussy. “Ah, shit.”

“Dee,” Charlie says, taking her hand and offering that characteristically lopsided smile that makes her feel far too soft, “me too.”

What a wild goddamn ride. She loves Charlie fucking Kelly. And he actually fucking loves her back. Leaving the words unsaid doesn’t make it any less true. It’s real; it’s theirs. And for once, Dee isn’t hounded by the nagging insecurity that’s constantly gnawing on her every thought. There’s a peace that comes from having given a part of yourself to someone else, and a sublime sort of relief in receiving a part of them in return. Dee couldn’t explain it if she wanted to, but it’s pure fucking bliss – a high right up there with the delirious rapture of a coke binge.

“Alright,” says Dee, squeezing Charlie’s hand as they both rise to their feet. There’s a lump in her throat and her stomach is churning like she’s just ingested a handful of Stay Awake. This shit is now or never, and Christ, she doesn’t know how it’s gonna play out – but perhaps she doesn’t even need to. Maybe, just for once in her life, she doesn’t need to be in control. “Alright,” she repeats, her voice unusually calm and foreign to her own ears. “Let’s go face the Gang.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [Look mom I made a thing!](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/175820196428/figure-it-out-by-riddlelvr-and-okimi79)


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